Hello - My Name is Effie Trinket, Now
by SquickWrites
Summary: Mr. Crane shook his head once, then twice, then rolled his eyes as he pushed the papers aside. "Eiffel Ludibrio? That's a mockery of a name."
1. A Plaything

**Hi there kids! This should only be a couple of chapters long, I do hope! But I felt inspired to write some Trinket the last couple of days. So here goes! Toying around with points of view here, so this chapter is in 1****st**** person, but the next will likely be in third. I love exploring the relationship between these two and there aren't many stories about them, so let's have at it, eh?**

When I was chosen to be an escort, my hair was its natural red-orange and my name was Eiffel. Eiffel Ludibrio, back then. And once I had completed my training, I was never called by that name again. Aside from one person, no one dared to call me that.

My mother thought the name was beautiful. To be named after something famous and important nearly ensured that I would be famous and important, in her eyes. And even though her hair was purple by then, she thought that my ginger locks were far superior. Even though the Eiffel tower may or may not have been crumbling at that very moment, and even though orange hair had gone out of style a month before I was born. She was confident in that. I was beautiful, I was important.

In the end, my personality probably would have saved me from being anywhere near is involved with the Games had it been different. It was the optimism, the bubbliness, and the lack of reaction towards things I detested. Perhaps, if I had been then how I am now, I never would have gone through hell for two children that I hardly knew. Not to say that I fully regret it – absolutely not. Otherwise, I would never have met Crane. I would never have met Abernathy, or the Everdeens, or Peeta. Otherwise, I would still be blind.

But naturally – I didn't know any of that the day I was summoned.

Being an escort was not a question or an option or a position applied for. You were assigned to it, and you accepted it. I received my summons in the mail, I told my mother, and she practically leapt for joy. Just as expected, her daughter was becoming something great. Ah yes – a babysitter! The greatest profession by far. But it was more than she had done, and she was proud of me no less.

I was only nineteen then.

Seeing as the message was a summons, I had been summoned to a restaurant that my mother and I had never been able to afford. (We acted like we could, of course, because that was what you _did _when you couldn't afford something.) I was to meet with someone named Mr. Crane in order to begin my training.

I didn't understand at the time, that the training would begin when I met Seneca Crane; that everything would start at the exact moment we confronted each other.

**X.x.X**

_La Crème _was, as previously mentioned, a restaurant of the highest class. So much so, that the real title of the restaurant is only implied. Everyone knows that _La Crème _is really _La Crème de La Crème _and they didn't bother to write it all out. They were too good for that. They didn't have to tell you for you to know.

Nonetheless, I was at a loss when I got obscure stares for my – take a wild guess – _cream _colored dress that I felt spectacularly accentuated my flaming hair, and matching shoes. By now everyone else had green hair, and mom had gone on a 'diet' to get hers done today.

The waiter was eyeing me suspiciously.

"I'm here with Mr. Crane, if you would?"

The waiter was somehow above saying anything to me, and simply flicked his head to command me into following him. Far, far back into the restaurant, right in a booth against the back wall, sat Mr. Seneca Crane.

I later found out that he specifically requested the table. He had a hunch that I would be embarrassing.

But the waiter approached the booth, nodding to Mr. Crane as he approached him.

"Your…" the waiter glanced at me. "_Guest_ is here." He finished, before quickly backing way to his podium.

Mr. Crane was studying some papers that he'd pulled from a folder, so I took the initiative to introduce myself.

"Hello? My name is Eiffel. Eiffel Ludibrio. Pleasure to meet you."

Mr. Crane shook his head once, then twice, then rolled his eyes as he pushed the papers aside.

"Eiffel Ludibrio? That's a mockery of a name."

I hadn't even sat down, and I was nearly prepared to leave.

"What was that? Is there something the matter with my name?" I challenged him. That was wrong, probably, dangerous even, had it been someone else. But I clearly wasn't thinking at the time and the damage had already been done.

"I'm not trying to offend you. Ludibrium, ludibrii. Latin – second declension neuter. Mockery, plaything." He bothered to look at me. "That is your name, didn't you know?"

"No actually." I replied (or snapped, rather.) I sat down across from him with a punch of defiance. "I did not know that."

Mr. Crane leaned back, flexing his fingers. "Also – Eiffel? Like the tower? Why name you after a tower? What purpose has the Eiffel Tower served to us? Pointless name."

"You know, my mom picked out this name."

"But it isn't _you_."

And so was the moment that I began to respect Seneca Crane; to like him.

He continued on. "You aren't some crumbling old tower. You're young. Fresh. Bright." He wagged his finger at me. "You are no tower."

"I fail to see what this has to do with my training. Does my name affect how qualified I am for this job?"

Crane's mouth practically dropped open at that question as he popped forward. "Do you know what an escort does?"

I nodded quickly – at last I could prove that I understood _something_. "Well, the escort chooses tribute names at the Reaping of their assigned district. Sounds terrifying, I should add. They also lead their tributes on their Victory Tours - assuming that they win, of course."

"Good, you studied. But you missed one of the most important parts."

"And that is?"

A little too testy, again.

"Most people treat it like the job of the mentors, but the escorts assist as well." Crane leaned back once more, tossing his head to the side. "To earn their tributes a bit of popularity – help them out a in the arena. Earn them a parachute or two."

"I'm supposed to help them."

"As best you can. And guess what?"

I paused. "What?"

"You can't do much if nobody likes you. Nobody likes a girl named Eiffel Ludibrio."

I folded my arms at that, because whether he meant to be or not, he was rude.

"And what am I to do about that? I can't help my name."

"We can change it."

"I don't want to."

"You don't have to – really."

I squinted at him. It made no sense. The solution was to change my name, but I wouldn't actually have to do it. Crane took that as a cue to continue.

"Miss – you've lived in the Capitol all your life. You know this." He swept his hands out before him. "It doesn't matter who you _really_ are in this town. All that matters is who you _make yourself out _to be."

Which I realised was true, considering that I had never been to this restaurant before, but everyone believed that I had just because my mother's hair was the right color at the time.

"So who?" I asked him, gaining some patience. "Who am I making myself out to be?"

Crane lightened then, at my compliance, at my willingness. "Well, it only makes sense to keep the new name attached, so you don't forget who you are. But far enough that you don't dwell on who you _were_."

I leaned back in my chair, mimicking what he had done moments before. "What's the name? You have one."

This was the first time that Crane smiled at me. "I'm thinking Effie. It's got a nice little ring to it – you can't help but feel the spring at that name."

"Effie? Effie Ludibrio?"

"No no – don't worry, we're changing the surname as well."

"To?"

"A plaything. A toy."

"Effie Plaything?"

He shook his head, rolling his eyes at me once again. "_No_, Effie."

"Effie."

"Think about it. When you do something amazing – something stunning – you never want to forget it. When you go somewhere absolutely mesmerizing! So what do you get?"

"A souvenir."

"You're close."

"Just tell me."

"A _trinket_. Something small, but ideally unforgettable. Which is exactly what I am going to turn you into."

I stuffed my tongue into my cheek. _Trinket_. I was just a toy. Or – apparently I had always been a toy? But now – now I was _clearly_ toy. An object to be tossed around, a piece of memorabilia.

"Effie Trinket?"

"I love it." Crane replied, grinning at me once more. "Starting tomorrow, we can work on your image." And quickly, he stood up and left the table.

"_Wait_ a second, Mr. Crane!" I jumped, hissing at him to stop.

He pivoted to me in a second. "_Yes_ Miss Trinket?"

"Who are you exactly?" The thought had occurred to me only seconds before. "Why are you in charge of me?"

Crane straightened his tie, glancing at his watch. "I'm the head gamemaker. I know what the people want. I've been doing this job too well for too long not to. So who better to teach you?"

Perhaps if I had known that from the beginning, I would have behaved better. So I straightened myself, and tried to scrape together what pride I had left. He was the head gamemaker. The decider of fates, the angel of death.

"One last question."

"What _is it _Miss Trinket?"

I tweaked my head to the side. "How do you feel about my hair?"

This question confused him, and he stood there, silent for a few moments.

"Orange went out of style long ago." Crane finally replied, turning to go.

Something about that comment struck a nerve in me, I remember. "Oh." Was all I could muster.

"But." He stopped to continue. "It looks fantastic on you."

I was taken aback by that comment, for it was the first time that anyone aside from my mother had appreciated my hair for what it was. Even I had learned to hate it. It was out of Capitol style, but it was me. It was Eiffel Ludibrio; it was Effie Trinket. Me.

"Thank you, Mr. Crane."

And for the third time that day, he smiled.

"Seneca."

Was the last thing he said to me, as he left me at the empty table.


	2. A Present

**Whoa there another chapter whoa whooaa**

The next day, I received a package with a note attached. Not a hologram, not a vmail, but a _package_, hand wrapped, and a _note, _hand written. The logical thing to do seemed to be reading the note. Unfolding the slip of paper, I read the unfamiliar scrawl:

"_Today, we begin working on your appearance. I will come to your home later to discuss the day's plans. You should probably open the box _very _soon. You'll see why._

Crane"

The fact that he neglected to tell me _why_ I ought to open the package was… mildly upsetting. I simply wanted to leave it, then. If he would not tell me what was inside, then I saw no reason to open it at all. But there was something about his wording that put me on edge. To not just open it soon, but _very_ soon. It made me worry about what was in there, if it were something that needed to escape its small cage. Feeling as though I was forced, I opened the box.

I am going to say this as simply as I possibly can:

There was a dog in the box.

Actually, it was more of a puppy.

But either way, a living, breathing, canine was in the box sent to me.

Had I opened it later, the living and breathing parts may have been null and void.

At that moment the doorbell rang.

I swear that it was locked, but Seneca Crane had the door open in a second, standing tall in his black suit, accentuated with green.

"It's good to see you today, Ms. Trinket." He stepped into my home without warning, shutting the door behind him. "I imagine you like your present?"

"Your present is a _dog _in a _box_?" I couldn't help shouting as the puppy wriggled in my arms. "The poor thing could have died in there! What were you thinking?"

"Nothing bad would happen to it if you just listened to my instructions. Which you did. I commend you on that."

"Mr. Crane!"

He held a hand up to me. "Seneca." He then took a seat at the kitchen table, and gestured for me to join him. I remained on the ground instead, glaring at him.

"Oh come now, Effie. I need to tell you about our plans."

"Not unless you apologise."

"I will not be apologising to you."

"Then I will not be joining you at that table."

Seneca sighed, then walked to me, towering above me and the small dog. "The puppy serves a purpose."

"How so?" I was scratching the small animal behind its ears in an attempt to calm it down. ""What does this have to do with anything?"

"The most important thing to Capitol citizens!" Seneca raised his pointer finger in the air. "Is appearance. And that is only _magnified_ when you have a profession in any way related to the Hunger Games."

"I don't see how a puppy improves my appearance."

Seneca's face lit up. "Oh! But it does!" He knelt down next to me, patting the dog on its head. "Think about it. A new, up and coming escort is just ripe for the picking in that jungle out there. But oh! Look at that? A puppy? She isn't just a slab of meat in the dog eat dog world. She has a nurturing side. She cares for something. We just couldn't _bear _to tear such a kind person to shreds."

"Are you saying that I would die without a puppy."

"Metaphorically, yes."

"Well isn't that lovely."

Seneca finally sat with me. "Not to mention – the dog is a purebred pug. Known for their big eyes and adoring expressions. And it's hard to find a purebred anything, nowadays. Or at least afford one. Black ones are even rarer."

"But I probably couldn't afford one."

"Accept it as a present, no one else needs to know that." He nodded his head side to side. "The pup will be reminiscent of you. Young, lively, and big eyed."

"Are my eyes big?"

"Your eyes are big."

"Is that bad?"

"No, not at all."

I was relieved.

Seneca jumped up. "Now! The first matter of business is to name the dog."

"You mean it doesn't have a name?" By now, the pug was waddling around my apartment, wandering under tables and sniffing at cabinets. "Where did you even get a purebred puppy?"

"No, he is currently nameless." Seneca retrieved the dog in seconds, able to cradle it in one arm without problem. "Seeing as you will be his new owner, I thought it would be appropriate to leave that to you."

"Well how am I supposed to know what to name it?"

Seneca shook his head. "How am I _to_ know what to name it. Clean your sentences. We will work on that another day."

"You didn't answer my question." I folded my legs, ignoring him altogether. "What do I name it?"

"What am I _to_-"

"What do I name it?"

He rolled his eyes. "I don't know _Effie_. This is your dog, you get to name it."

"Do names have some sort of special social significance too?" I asked, reaching for the puppy.

"Answer that yourself." Seneca dropped the dog into my arms. "The last time someone had a _meaning _behind their name, she was named after an ugly old tower that might not even exist anymore."

I narrowed my eyes. "You are despicably rude."

"And also head game maker."

"I am going to name him Marco." I rested the dog in my lap. "After Marco Polo. The explorer. Because he has a very inquisitive nature."

"_Effie_." Seneca stressed my name, exasperated. "Why do you _insist _on making such poor decisions."

"Is there something wrong with the name Marco?"

"No there's nothing _wrong_, it just-"

"Then his name is Marco." I patted the puppy. "Isn't that right Marco?"

He barked in response.

Seneca tossed rubbed his temples.

"Let's just get this over with."


End file.
